Molly Hooper hated funerals. Her experience with the dead and her lack of experience with the living meant that the crying, grieving people in black made her more uncomfortable than any silent coffin ever could. But not everybody understood death as closely as she did, and often misinterpreted her lack of fear as a lack of respect. At her father's funeral, her stepmother had actually slapped her over some poorly-worded comfort Molly had offered. The widow had apologised immediately after, but Molly had taken it as a lesson that funerals were not her strength, and so she avoided them wherever possible.

But the funeral of Sherlock Holmes could not be avoided. Even if it were possible for her absence to go unnoticed at the tiny ceremony, she had made a promise to be there. Yet every moment the robed stranger droned on to the congregation was agony. His words were nice enough, but did little justice to the exceptional life they described. She found herself tuning them out altogether, and stealing furtive glances at the mourners around her.

She knew they wanted absolute secrecy about the time and location of the famous detective's burial; there were fears that the media and other busybodies would interfere. As it was, there were a handful of people Molly didn't recognise, keeping a respectful distance from the closer friends of the deceased. She supposed they were former clients or homeless confederates of his, come to pay their last respects to the man they all owed so much. The closer friends and loved ones Sherlock had managed to collect over time stood closer to the casket, and Molly's place was among them.

Poor Mrs Hudson was sobbing into her handkerchief so hard that she was in actual danger of drowning out the minister entirely. Greg Lestrade had apparently come straight from the station, as he was wearing his uniform with his hat tucked respectfully under one arm. His professional appearance only served to emphasise the lines of grief and regret on his honest face, ageing him in a way that his work never had. Mycroft Holmes was naturally the most enigmatic. Years of maintaining a 'small position in the British government' had given him the coldest and most stoic graveside manner Molly had ever witnessed. More than once she caught herself staring openly, willing the mask to slip and reveal his true emotions. It was his own little brother, after all, that they were there to eulogise. As far as she knew he had no other living relations and was now completely alone. Yet Mycroft Holmes' granite face showed no cracks, and Molly turned away unsatisfied.

Then there was John. Molly could hardly look at him without fighting back bitter tears of her own. His straight-backed, military countenance told the story of a man who had seen many horrors and attended many funerals before this one. His eyes were bright but dry, and his hands were as steady as ever by his sides. Everyone who knew the man knew how little his outward appearance reflected the agony within. He was like an abandoned house, continuing to stand long after his tenant had left his shelter. And this house was already beginning to crumble.

"Would anyone like say a few words before we lower the casket?" the minister, finally finished reciting his empty words, asked to the mourners. There was a tense moment of silence as he turned, out of deference, to the brother. Mycroft Holmes hesitated, staring hard at the coffin before giving a barely-perceptible shake of his head. His grey eyes travelled up to the army doctor's but stopped before they could meet, and for a moment Molly saw some of the guilt and pain he was usually so adept at hiding. It was clear what he was thinking: in the end, John Watson had been a far better brother to Sherlock Holmes.

John stepped forward, a hand grazing briefly over the top of the coffin before returning to his side. His mouth opened and even Mrs Hudson stilled in anticipation of his words, the only words that would have mattered to Sherlock on this day.

But the words wouldn't come. His mouth opened and closed several times, but there was no sound to accompany the action. The air filled with a terrible pity as they all watched the man struggle with himself. Molly tugged at the buttons on her sleeve, feeling like an intruder upon his heartbreak. It was clear to everyone present that, as much as he wanted to, John Watson couldn't bring himself to say goodbye.

Mercifully the minister intervened, motioning for the coffin to be lowered as he commenced the burial rights. Mrs Hudson gently pulled John back from the edge, murmuring something Molly thought sounded like, "He knows, dear."

Molly closed the door to her flat and slumped, eyes shut, against its cool frame. She hated funerals for a reason, and in some ways this one had been worse than her own father's. She wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and pretend the whole day had never happened.

"So, how was it?"

Her eyes opened slowly and looked into the face of the man she had just help to bury. He was sitting in her favourite chair, watching her reverie with thinly-veiled impatience.

"It was… it was nice. A lovely service," she told him, too tired to make it sound convincing. She walked to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, kicking off her shoes as she did.

Sherlock made a disgruntled noise. "Care to elaborate on 'nice'?"

"I don't know. You pretty much predicted everything that happened. Mrs Hudson cried the whole time, Lestrade showed up late and was the only policeman there, and your brother was just impossible to read but I assume he was very sad underneath it all. There were a couple of people I didn't really recognise; some of them looked like your homeless friends and one of them Mrs Hudson called 'Angelo.'" She spoke in a rush, eyes fixed on the two coffee cups in front of her. Her hand shook as she spooned two sugars into one of them and wondered how she would answer Sherlock's next inevitable question.

"And John?"

The kettle was boiling. Molly busied herself with it for several moments, conscious of Sherlock's eyes watching her every move. "John was... he was… sad," she finished lamely, placing the steaming beverage on the table beside him and taking the seat opposite. She ignored the look he gave her and took several quick sips of the scalding liquid.

"I really wish you'd be a little more forthcoming, Molly. What did he do? What did he say?" He asked, exasperated.

"Nothing."

"Come again?"

"He didn't say anything. He couldn't. He tried to, but it would have meant admitting to himself that you're dead, and he just can't yet. So he didn't speak at your funeral at all. Nobody did except the minister." Molly wished, not for the first time in her life, that she were better at talking to people. She hadn't wanted to worry Sherlock over how poorly John seemed to be coping with this whole terrible business, but it was clear from the lengthening silence that she had failed. "I'm sorry," she whispered to her coffee cup, blinking back the tears she hadn't quite been able to shed by his empty grave.

"No, it's my fault."

His voice was so tired. It had only been a few days since he'd stood on the roof of St Bart's; only a few days since he had been to Baker Street, or talked to John. They both knew that there were many more days to come. It would be difficult, but Sherlock had assured Molly that for now at least, it was necessary.

"John's strong," she reminded him. "He's a soldier. He will heal, just not today. When he's able to say all the things he wanted to, you'll know he's strong enough to see this through."

Sherlock's pale, perceptive eyes regarded her for a moment, considering her words. That unreadable gaze always made Molly feel so exposed, but for once she held it. It was Sherlock who looked away first, picking up his cooling coffee before answering her with his usual equanimity.

"I know."